Those Who Can't
by ArixaBell
Summary: To make some extra money for their countries, the nations take on a gig as teachers at an American high school. Written for TheFlyingPotato64, Second Chance's 100th reviewer. USUK mentioned.


_To make some extra money for their countries, the nations take on a gig as substitute teachers at an American high school. Written for TheFlyingPotato64, Second Chance's 100th reviewer, who requested something with the nations as high school teachers. I went with the whacky approach._

_Yes, 100th. I am soooo far behind with gift fics it isn't even funny. XD _

_Title, obviously, comes from the saying: "Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach." I don't agree with the saying myself, but it works for this._

_Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine._

* * *

America gave the principal a hearty handshake. "You won't regret this!"

The man smiled, in a way that somehow managed to convey the fact that he was only doing this because they were desperate for substitute teachers during this particularly nasty flu season, and these very young looking men had good connections. "Of course. Here are your assignments and room numbers. Please don't be late."

"Right!" America had given a thorough description of what he believed their strengths and weaknesses were as far as high school subjects went. Hopefully their teaching jobs wouldn't be too hard. He picked up the list and scanned over it.

"This is the stupidest idea you have ever had," England muttered once the principal had left. "A teaching job is not the way to jumpstart our economies."

"I think it's a good idea," Germany said, earning a few surprised looks. "Teaching is a fine tradition. Children need discipline!" He glanced over America's shoulder, seeking out his name on the list. "What the..."

America swallowed. "I think there's been a mistake... I had better go talk to him."

But the first bell rang, and they had to get to their classes, not wanting to be fired on their first day.

* * *

America stood proudly before the board, which had "Mr. Jones" scrawled impressively across it, accompanied by an American flag portrayed in mid-billow, drawn with some colored chalk he had brought himself.

There may have been a mistake or two in their assignments, but his could not have been better! World history? That was the easiest topic ever! He had _lived_ history! And to make life even easier, the class was studying the second World War, a time period he was intimately familiar with! He had to admit, he was a little fuzzy on history _before_ his time. If anybody had brought up an unfamiliar war, his only guess would have been that it was probably between England and France.

"So!" America set his book aside. He didn't need that. "You get to learn some awesome history! About how I—that is, our army swooped in and kicked some ass and saved everyone else's asses and were great heroes!" He dove into his variety of stories, trying to remember to change the pronouns, though a few cases of 'I' and 'me' slipped in. The enraptured students didn't seem to mind. America mentally patted himself on the back. He was doing a good job! They were hanging on his every word!

"Um, sir? Mr. Jones?" A student near the back raised her hand, and America nodded at her. "Is... I don't think that's what happened."

"What?" America blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Well... Pearl Harbor didn't _start_ the war..."

"Of course it did," America scoffed.

"But... what about the invasion of Poland?"

"Yeah..." America conceded. "That sounds familiar. That happened in there somewhere."

"I'm pretty sure that was before—"

"I don't remember anything happening beforehand," America said with a wave of his hand. "So! Continuing on..."

* * *

Canada fiddled nervously with his tie as the students filed in. Groups of girls chatted, groups of boys laughed raucously, shyer kids slunk in and found their seats, others looked ready to take a nap at their desk.

Of all the languages, why had they given him _Spanish_? Canada didn't know Spanish. What about French? France may grow agitated over what he called Canada's bastardization of his gorgeous language, but at least he _knew_ it. He didn't know much Spanish. America did, why couldn't he teach Spanish?

"Ah..." Canada cleared his throat, finally dropping his hand from his tie and trying to look official. "Um. _Hola. __¿Cómo estás?_ Or, wait, _está_?" He mentally groaned. That wasn't going to instill any respect in the students. "Um. _Estoy embarazada..._"

Nobody was even paying attention to him, though, continuing on with their chatting and naps and reading. A couple even seemed to be studying. And that left Canada unsure as to whether he wasn't being noticed, as usual, or if it had nothing to do with him and they were just being teenagers.

"Class!" he said, raising his voice. He gestured to the name scribbled on the board. "I'm your substitute, Mr. Williams."

But they did not acknowledge him, though one or two glanced around in confusion. Canada sagged. This wasn't going to work, whether he knew the language or not...

He tried everything he could think of to get their attention. After about fifteen minutes, the confused students shrugged and filed out of the classroom to find something else to do.

* * *

"The recipe today..." Germany glanced down at the card in his hand. He had found it in the teacher's desk drawer. "Teriyaki chicken." He looked up at the patiently waiting students. "This is good. Americans should learn how to eat something besides hamburgers."

"Are you stereotyping us?" one of the students asked. "You sound foreign. You shouldn't come to our country and insult us."

"Do all of you like burgers?" Germany asked, and got a lot of shuffling around and avoiding of eye contact. "Okay, then." He looked at the recipe again. It sounded easy enough. And after that was done they were supposed to work on sewing. He went over the list of ingredients, and a student raised her hand. "Yes?"

"I don't know how to pronounce your name," she said in a tiny voice.

Americans... Germany helped the students out with pronunciation, then returned to teaching them about cooking, especially the importance of cleaning up after themselves. Even if he did hear a few whispers that sounded like "OCD".

One student in particular needed a lot of assistance when the they started attempting to prepare the dish themselves. Germany swung by every few minutes to make sure she was using the right ingredients and not burning anything.

"I'm sorry," she said with a nervous giggle. "The only thing I know how to make is spaghetti. That's why I joined this class."

"Oh." Germany's eye twitched. "Interesting. Promise me that after you learn some new recipes, you will stay away from pasta. It does things to a person."

"I promise, Mr... uh, Mr."

* * *

"No, no, _no_!" Slapping the script down, England stalked toward the stage, toward the wide-eyed students. "You've got it all wrong!"

"What... what did we do?" a quivering girl asked, trying to hide behind her co-star.

"That's not how Shakespeare intended that scene at all!"

The student actors exchanged a baffled glance. "That's how I've always seen that scene interpreted," one offered in a tiny voice.

"Well it's wrong. It's supposed to be _humorous_. Sexual! Not serious."

The baffled glance grew even more baffled. "But..."

"No buts!" England said.

"How do you _know_ that's how Shakespeare intended it?" a brave fellow said.

England smiled. "I just do. All right, once more!"

* * *

"_Bonjour_!" France said with a dramatic flourish toward the board. "I am your substitute, Monsieur Bonnefoy!"

"Aren't you a French teacher?" one confused student said.

"Do not be silly!" France said, chuckling. "Just because I am French does not mean that is all I teach. I am well versed in the arts." He scanned the room of papers, paints, brushes, palettes. And the circle of easels surrounding a table that held a bowl of fruit. "Still life, is it? Bah!" France began loosening his tie.

"What are you doing?" one of his lovely students asked.

"Fruit bowls are for children! You are much too advanced. It is time to move on to the beautiful human form."

The boys immediately looked for an escape. Most of them did, anyway.

"I don't think that's allowed," one girl said, and was immediately glared at and elbowed by her friends.

"Nonsense!" France tossed the tie aside and unbuttoned his jacket.

It all ended with France being escorted away and dismissed from his position, and the disappointed students left to paint fruit on their own.

* * *

Everyone in the class, including Italy, were clad in matching t-shirts and shorts. They stretched and chatted on the track. They occasionally glanced at their teacher, perplexed by his preparation. He was jamming a stake into the ground near the starting line. That was very odd.

When he finished and stepped away, it was revealed that he had pasted a photo of somebody's face to the stake. Somebody with funny eyebrows.

"Hey, I know him," one student said. "It's the new drama teacher."

Italy grinned. "It's for motivation! Imagine the British army is after you, and you will run faster than you ever have in your life."

The students exchanged a very confused look. "A picture of the British drama teacher will help us run faster?" one said, scratching his head.

"Why would we run from the British army, anyway?" said another. "Didn't we, like, kick their ass in every war our country had with them?"

"That doesn't make them less scary!" Italy said, crossing his arms with a pout.

Italy's plan turned out to not even be necessary. Their class just happened to coincide with the last art class of the day. A nearly nude France was chased by, trying to evade his captors, and the gym students ran.

* * *

"Um." The bored class watched Romano, waiting for him to say something. Anything. "Uh." He turned the book sideways, then upside down. That didn't help. It didn't make it _less_ understandable, though. "So, uh..."

"Do you know _anything_ about calculus?" asked a boy near the back.

"Of course I do!" Romano snapped. "Um. I know that... it's... math."

The students groaned and resumed working on unfinished homework. Romano muttered curses under his breath, directed toward whoever had chosen this class for him, and schools in general, and America, and Germany just because. Until siesta time, anyway.

* * *

The principal set his paperwork aside, leveling a serious look at the disheveled pair before him. "It's not often I get teachers sent to my office."

America rubbed the back of his neck with an awkward laugh. "Yeah, well..."

"Is it true you were..." He coughed. "In the janitor's closet?"

England refused to answer, staring at the ground, face red.

"We were on our lunch break," America said in a soothing voice. "We weren't doing anything on your time."

"That's not the _point_, Mr. Jones. One of the students opened the door and saw you!"

America nodded. "I know. But... well, I'm sure it was educational."

"_Educational_? Why would a teenage girl need to know... _that_?"

"Have you _met_ teenage girls?"

The principal spluttered for a moment. "Well, you're just lucky you hadn't gotten any further or I'd have to immediately fire you and contact the police."

America sagged in relief. He didn't want to go through something like _that_ again, that was for sure. "Thank you, sir."

He grunted. "You're also lucky we're so desperate for teachers. We've already lost one of you. Now get back to work."

* * *

"Ugh. I can't believe coach got sick, too," one of the players grumbled. "I guess we're supposed to have a sub."

"Nobody could be as good as coach," said another. "This is just a waste of time."

"Should we just go home?"

"Nah, my mom says I can't come home until I work out my aggression during practice."

"Hey, I hear someone coming."

"So you're the new coach they sent?" said a voice. "Huh. Well, okay. Really? This is the fifth place they've assigned you? How come none of the other jobs worked out? Oh, well, do your best, I suppose."

And their new coach skated out onto the ice, violet eyes blazing from behind his mask, stick gripped like a weapon. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the cute loopy curl sticking out of the mask, but the way he eyed the team made them flinch back. "Okay. Shall we start practice?"

A terrifying hour later, the hockey team decided they would lobby to make their substitute coach permanent.

* * *

"Well that was a crapload of fail," Romano growled as they left the school grounds. "I can't believe they don't want any of us back."

"That's not true," America protested. "England, Germany, and Canada were offered permanent positions!"

England and Germany looked a little embarrassed by that, but Canada seemed pleased.

"We'll try again tomorrow," America said. "I called Russia to see if he wanted to try teaching the history class, and he said that sounded fun."

"Where's France?" Italy wondered.

America shrugged. "Beats me. I'm sure he'll turn up. So who else should we get to help out next time?"

"How about actual teachers?" Romano said.

"But we're the ones who need money!"

"I think I just saw a naked man run by," Italy said.

England rubbed his temples. "Let's just leave..."

"Let's go out to eat!" America said. "Then I can tell you all about the great historical stories I told my class, and... guys? Where are you going? Hey..."

* * *

_Estoy embarazada = A classic Spanish mistake. Embarazada means pregnant, not embarrassed. :)_

_I'm kind of embarrassed myself to admit this, but as a kid I _did_ think Pearl Harbor was what started WWII. XD History fail, America-centric child me!_


End file.
